A Rose on the Grave
by Anath Tsurugi
Summary: A long time ago, Sherlock Holmes saw a friend killed in front of him. When a new case comes up that hits close to home for the Holmes family, parallels between the two events begin to emerge. Sherlock failed before; what happens if he fails again? SH/JW
1. Repressed

(A/N) Hello, new fandom. This'll be my first attempt at a Sherlock fic, so we'll see how this goes. I typically inhabit a land of anime and fantasy, so let's see how I do over here in semi-reality. I just couldn't hide from the plot bunny. It was a very hungry little bugger. This takes place post Great Game, so we're operating under the assumption that everyone survived.

**Warnings:** Yes, there are some OCs in this, but don't let that turn you off right away. I think it's safe to say this story will ultimately end up being Sherlock/John, as well, and while I do like me some slash, the rating is more for violence than anything else…as of right now, anyway.

**Disclaimer:** _FAN_FICTION! Enjoy.

**A Rose on the Grave**

_Chapter 1: Repressed_

"_Drop the gun, Sherlock. You don't even know how to use that thing."_

"_Would you like to bet on that?"_

"_I'll kill you if you don't back off."_

"_Would you, Mr. Christopher? I don't believe you would."_

"_No…you're right; I wouldn't…not while you know the disc's location…but I might kill __**her**__," the man says, turning and aiming his gun at the young girl cuffed to the pipe behind him._

"_No," the boy whispers, his gun lowering barely half an inch. "You…you wouldn't…kill her."_

"_I will…if you don't drop the gun and tell me what I want to know."_

"_I can't…it isn't right," he says, his hands shaking slightly as his gaze shifts to the girl…his friend…his __**best**__ friend._

"_To hell with your playground rules! This is bigger than that. Do you really think her life is anything to me? Or __**yours**__, for that matter? I'll kill you both and bury you at the bottom of the bloody ocean. Only __**you**__ can stop this."_

_He hasn't taken his eyes off her the entire time the man's been speaking. She's afraid…but she understands. She's had her life torn apart around her. She trusts him. He's the __**only**__ one she trusts._

"_Forgive me, Mr. Christopher, but you'll do that whether I give you the disc or not. If you want me to cooperate…let Rosette go free."_

_The man laughs at this. "We're not making deals here. If you haven't done what I want by the count of three, I'm going to shoot her. One."_

"_No…sir…please," he begs, sounding like a five-year-old again._

"_Two." He cocks the trigger._

"_Don't…please…don't hurt her."_

"_Daddy?"_

"_Thr-"_

_The sound of the gun firing explodes in his ears. The weapon's unfamiliar. He has no idea where he's aiming, but as he watches, Jonathan Christopher's face bursts open in a mass of blood, muscle, and bone. He's dead before he even hits the ground. Horrified, he drops the gun, the sound of it clattering away across the floor mingling with Rosette's cry. As his gaze shifts from the bloody sight on the floor to his friend, he can only think that he's glad she can't see her father's face._

"_I – I'm sorry," he mumbles as he moves toward her, half-collapsing beside her. "I'm so sorry. I – I didn't…he was going to __**kill**__ you!"_

"_I know," she whispers to him, leaning closer and resting her forehead against his since her hands are still cuffed and she can't put her arms around his shoulders. "It's all right. It's not your fault. You did what you had to do."_

_Reaching forward blindly, he grasps her right shoulder. "I…I thought…I was afraid…I wasn't ever going to see you again."_

"_It's okay. I'm fine."_

_A load of bollocks, that. She __**isn't**__ fine and they both know it, but at least she isn't dead. _

"_I couldn't…I…I __**shot**__ him, Rosette," he says, feeling like he could burst into tears._

"_It doesn't matter," she soothes, nuzzling him as if he's a small child again. "He was a horrible man and he deserved it."_

"_But he was your __**dad**__…"_

"_I already told you, it __**doesn't matter**__. He really was going to kill me," she says firmly. "You saved me. I knew you'd find me. I __**knew**__ you'd come, Sherlock," she says, her face alight with a relieved, trusting smile. That smile will be forever burned into his brain…that and what comes next._

_Another gunshot sounds in his ears. Rosette stiffens and she gives a strangled cry, the wonderful smile slowly melting into a look of shock and pain. He knows what he will see, but is unwilling to accept the hole in her stomach, blood flowing freely from within._

"ROSETTE!" Sherlock Holmes shouted as he shot bolt upright in bed, his gaze darting around the room, searching for a girl who'd been dead for more than twenty years. It took him several moments to realize he was not fourteen anymore and he was in his flat on Baker Street…and his flatmate probably would have heard that. John was a soldier, after all: trained to wake at the slightest noise.

As Sherlock had predicted, John Watson was at his door inside of five minutes, poking his head inside.

"Sherlock? Are you all right? What was that?"

"Nothing," he mumbled, massaging his temples as he climbed out of bed, noting that it was still dark out. "What time is it?"

"Three in the bloody morning. Just…just a dream?" the doctor continued to pry, no stranger to nightmares himself. "Who's…Rosette?"

"Old case," he lied, staring out the window. "Rosette Christopher. She died."

"Oh," John murmured, a slightly awkward silence following before he asked, "did you…want to talk?"

"Certainly not," he said, still not looking at his friend. "It was only a dream. I can't even imagine why I'm thinking about it now. It was a long time ago."

"Sherlock…you're sweating," John pointed out, noticing the sheen of moisture in the light from the hallway. "Are you _sure_ you're all right?"

"I'm _fine_, John," he said, his tone souring slightly as he finally turned to look at his flatmate. "I'm not an infant. I can handle a few bad dreams."

"Suit yourself, but if you ever _need_ to talk-"

"Don't you have to be at the office in the morning?" Sherlock cut him off. "You should get back to bed. I'll make some tea or something."

John was a bit too surprised that he'd remembered to call him on the fact that he was clearly avoiding the subject. As he headed back to his own room, all he could think was that his flatmate probably would not make that tea he'd been talking about.

True to John's expectations, Sherlock didn't leave his room. He went right back to staring out his window, still trying to piece together his scattered thoughts.

He hadn't thought about Rosette in a while. Perhaps he'd even been foolish enough to believe he'd purged himself of her memory. However…ever since the incident with Moriarty, the heart he didn't have had been more and more on his mind. Ever since Rosette's death, he'd been thoroughly convinced he didn't have a heart, and his interactions with others seemed to confirm this. Her murder had been the event that had destroyed anything that could remotely be considered a heart. Even so, Moriarty's words haunted his thoughts whenever he didn't have a case to work on, and even then…

_I will burn you. I will burn the __**heart**__ out of you._

_I have been reliably informed that I don't have one._

_Oh, we both know that's not quite true._

Not quite true? The last time he'd allowed himself a heart, his only friend had been murdered…right under his arm, no less. John was his friend now. What would happen this time?

Was history about to repeat itself?

XxX

About a week after the incident, John and Sherlock found themselves out for lunch discussing a new case.

"So…what exactly are we looking for again?" John asked before biting into a spicy tuna roll.

"A woman whose right leg is roughly an inch shorter than her left leg," the consulting detective replied, keeping a subtle watch on the crowd of people entering the sushi bar he and John were currently sitting in.

"And you can tell that just by looking?"

"Naturally."

"Not exactly specific. I shudder to think how many women that description might fit."

"Maybe so, but how many of them wear flip-flops and frequent sushi bars on Shaftesbury Avenue?"

Shrugging, John ate a little more of his lunch. "I couldn't guess. And you don't suppose your suspect's going to be bothered by the fact that you're staring at all the customers and not eating your miso soup?"

"I was honestly considering just tossing it. This really isn't the best place for Japanese cuisine," Sherlock said, dubiously swirling a spoon through the concoction.

"If I have to make you eat that, I will. I don't know if I've seen you eat _anything_ this week," John reprimanded him in an offhand sort of way…though he did have to agree about it not being particularly good sushi.

Sherlock was about to respond when he quite suddenly froze in place. The look was so brief, John almost thought he'd imagined it, but he could swear he saw a tiny spark of horror in his flatmate's eyes.

He turned to follow his gaze and found a young woman standing in the doorway staring at them. After several moments of staring, a huge grin split her face and she made a beeline for them. Just to be sure she wasn't their suspect, John shot a quick glance at her feet and found combat boots instead of flip-flops.

Aside from the boots, she was dressed rather well in a black knee-length skirt and a spaghetti-strap top that sported, of all things, a camouflage pattern. She was tall, about his own height, in fact, but she looked young. Her auburn hair was long, falling just past her shoulders, but it looked wild and unkempt. The girl's…interesting look was finished with a pair of blue eyes that promised what could only be described as mischief.

"Uncle Sherlock!" she greeted enthusiastically, pulling a seat up to their rather small table.

"Uncle?" John asked, glancing between the new arrival and his flatmate.

"I'm busy right now, Shayla," Sherlock replied, not quite meeting her eyes.

"Is that any kind of greeting to give your only niece? I haven't seen you in over a year."

"Working."

"Uncle, won't you at least say 'hello'?" she asked, starting to sound a little hurt.

"It won't mean I'm not working right now," he said. Something John couldn't help notice about the man was that he sometimes had a tendency to look through people when his mind was elsewhere, but this wasn't like those times. At the moment, Sherlock seemed to be avoiding looking directly at her.

"Come on, Sherlock. She's here now and we've got all afternoon. Aren't you at least going to introduce us?" John asked.

"Yes, who is your friend, Uncle? You don't usually hang around with anyone."

Sighing, and finally resigning himself to the fact that he was stuck, Sherlock jerked a hand in his friend's direction. "Shayla Holmes, this is Dr. John Watson, my flatmate. John, I imagine you've gathered by now that Shayla's my niece?"

"Hello, Shayla," the doctor greeted courteously, reaching out to shake her hand. "So you're…_Mycroft's_ daughter?"

"That's the one, and you don't have to worry about the full name, Doctor. Most people just call me Shay."

"All right then…Shay. How old are you?"

"Sixteen next month," she said, looking rather pleased with herself.

"Ah, sixteen, and where do you go to school?" he asked, keeping up the small talk.

"I don't. I did for awhile when I was little, but after an attempt to kidnap me, my parents decided it would be best to hire a private tutor for me."

"Who also happens to serve as a nursemaid and personal body guard," Sherlock added somewhat snidely. "Tell me, Shayla, where is dear Hunter today?"

"At the Starbucks down the way watching my every move. She doesn't care for Japanese."

"Well, to each his own," John said casually as he took another bite of the less than stellar sushi, still wondering at a woman named Hunter.

"Have you talked to Mum at all recently? She's meeting us at Covent Garden later. We're to go to the ballet tonight."

"Mm, joy. And you're going to Covent Garden dressed like that?" he asked, dodging the question about her mother.

"You know me," she said, still grinning, even if it was somewhat half-hearted at this point.

"Didn't you come in here to get some lunch? If you take too long, Miss Hunter Carson will come over here and find some way to blame me for making her job more difficult. You I can stand, little scamp, but Miss Hunter is another matter altogether," Sherlock said, finally managing to look his niece in the eye.

For a moment, Shayla looked like she might argue, but then her shoulders slumped in defeat and she stood from the table. "You're right. I should be going. Don't be a stranger, Uncle. You either, Dr. Watson. I expect to see more of you."

"A-all right," John said, surprised by the abruptness of the whole exchange. "Goodbye, Miss Holmes."

"Shay," she reprimanded him before going to join the line of patrons waiting to be served. As she moved off, the doctor couldn't help but notice the rather distinct black satchel draped over her shoulder: some sort of Asian writing monogrammed onto the fabric in red.

"That was a little harsh, wasn't it?" he asked, turning his attention back to Sherlock. "If she's your niece-"

"As I said, there is no great love between Miss Carson and myself. If I can avoid seeing her, I will."

John didn't comment on it, but he had noticed that, while the exchange might seem harsh to an outsider, by Sherlock's differing standards, his goodbye had been almost…endearing.

"So…Mycroft's…married?" he asked, still not quite able to get his mind around it.

"Yes…to one, Kathleen, maiden name, Christopher. The Holmes' and the Christophers have been two very close political dynasties for several generations now and the two of them found it politically convenient to marry. It looks good for a politician to have a family, after all."

The name Christopher sounded a warning chime in John's memory, but he couldn't quite recall why, and before he could probe the thought any further, Sherlock suddenly shot up from the table, spilling his miso soup in the process.

"Flip-flops," he declared excitedly, moving away without bothering to clean up the mess.

XxX

Just as Sherlock had expected, flip-flop girl had been the perpetrator of a string of cannibalistic murders, killing people and turning them into sushi.

Apart from thinking that he probably wasn't going to eat Japanese again for a while, John was prepared for a quiet evening in (as quiet as an evening in at 221B, Baker Street _could_ be, anyway), but his hopes were soon dashed by a rather frantic pounding on their door.

John opened the door to find Mrs. Hudson accompanied by two women, one dressed in a black evening gown studded with what appeared to be diamonds, and the other clad in a black suit. The first looked oddly familiar, short brunette hair and striking blue eyes, but the second one was new, short with black hair pulled back into a sharp bun, skin nearly snow white, and eyes an odd shade of brown that could almost have been red.

"I'm sorry, John, but they insisted on coming up."

"Where's Sherlock?" the first woman demanded, getting right up in John's face.

"Here, but…not quite here, if you know what I mean," John said nervously, taking several steps back, both to escape the near-hysterical woman and to allow the three of them inside. "He's probably…contemplating the ancient art of sushi-making," he said, glancing back at his friend, who was draped over the couch and staring up at the ceiling. "Sherlock…a little help here?"

"With what, John?" Sherlock asked in exasperation as he slowly pulled himself into a sitting position. "I was th-" When he saw who was currently standing in his flat, his voice briefly died in his throat, but it was soon resurrected. "Ah, Kath…and Miss Hunter Carson, of course."

"Save the bollocks, Holmes," the woman who was apparently Hunter Carson fired back at him.

"Did I say anything?"

"You opened your mouth."

"If you think-"

"Please! Both of you! Not now!" the first woman shouted, looking like she might burst into tears. "Sherlock…I need your help."

"With what, dear sister? I thought you were meant to go to the ballet tonight." That was when Sherlock realized what was wrong. "Kath…where's Shayla?"

"She's gone," the woman called Kath whispered.

"Gone?"

"She disappeared from Covent Garden. The police have locked down the building and detained everyone inside. Mycroft's furious-"

"As well he would be," Sherlock said calmly, his gaze shifting to Hunter. "Someone actually managed to get past the deadly Hunter?"

The woman said nothing, but if looks could kill, she would be the best in the business.

"Sherlock, please, don't provoke her. She feels bad enough already. You've got to help us."

"I'll just…make some tea, then, shall I?" Mrs. Hudson said, ducking into the kitchen and leaving the two flatmates with their clients.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, still looking at Hunter, knowing she would have been nearby when whatever had taken place happened.

"Shayla went to get ice cream during the second intermission. I accompanied her out of the box, but she asked me to wait. She said she could handle it. So I waited. I could see the vendor from where I stood. One minute, she was buying the ice cream…the next, she was gone…disappeared into the crowd."

"And the entire complex has been searched?" Sherlock asked, knowing just how big Covent Garden was.

"Yes. They're searching a second time. The doormen and the ice cream vendor have been detained for questioning. Sherlock…please help me…my baby…my Shay…I can't lose her, too."

Sherlock remained silent as Kathleen came to sit beside him on the couch. He didn't protest when she took his hands in hers. "Someone who can slip through our secret service detail…who can get past _Hunter_…they'll never find who did this, never. It's got to be you. You're the only one who can rescue Shay. You're her only hope."

"Kathleen…you _know_ I can't-" he started to say.

"Rosette is _past_, Sherlock. Shay is _now_. She could die; she _will_ die…unless _you_ find her. I'm _begging_ you," Kathleen said, keeping her hold on his hands, but moving to her knees in front of him. "Please…find my daughter…find your niece."

For a long while, Sherlock just sat there, looking down at his sister-in-law, impassive as usual. Then, seeming to come to a decision, he drew Kathleen's hands up toward his face.

"I _will_ find her. I promise."

The oddly tender moment between the two in-laws might have gone on longer, except Sherlock's phone chose that exact moment to buzz, indicating a text. Sherlock released Kathleen's hands and reached for the device, his nostrils flaring and his eyes widening briefly when he saw the message.

The number was blocked, but the text read, 'I still want that disk back.'

XxX

(A/N) Hopefully, I haven't confused you too much. Don't worry, things will be explained. My only other thing for this chapter is that I have no idea whether they call them flip-flops in Britain or not, but there's something amusing to me about Sherlock standing up in a restaurant and shouting 'flip-flops!'

I have a few chapters written for this already, so if anyone's interested, I can try posting them on a weekly basis until I run out and just have to go chapter by chapter. Well, until next time, enjoy the Sherlock.


	2. The Ballerina

(A/N) Scribblez, The Science Of Seduction, and acids-and-bases, thank you very much for reviewing, and thank you to all of you who favorited and alerted. I hope you continue to enjoy.

**A Rose on the Grave**

_Chapter 2: The Ballerina_

"She…talked about Rosette."

Sherlock made no response to John's probing comment as the two moved through the lamp-lit streets. Kathleen and Hunter had remained behind at the flat to drink the tea Mrs. Hudson had made. Hunter had said they would follow soon.

"Rosette was a Christopher, too, then?" John asked, finally remembering where he'd heard it before. "She wasn't…just another case…was she?"

"Not entirely," Sherlock said, speaking for the first time since making his promise to Kathleen. "It happened twenty-one years ago. You could say it was my first real case. I was fourteen."

John very nearly stopped in his tracks when the pieces finally came together in his mind. "You saw her die, didn't you?"

"Yes. I killed her," Sherlock said, stoic as ever.

This time, John really did stop dead, just out of sight of Covent Garden.

"You…_what_?"

Hearing him stop, Sherlock also came to a halt, not turning to look at the doctor as he spoke.

"My inability to discover her kidnappers' intentions in a timely fashion was the direct cause of her death. _I_ killed her, John."

"Sherlock, that's…feeling responsible for someone's death, that's…not the same thing as _actually_ killing someone," John insisted.

"Isn't it, though?" he asked, slowly turning to stare at his friend, his features set into a strange expression John couldn't quite identify.

After what could have been several minutes or hours of this odd staring, John slowly forced himself to move toward his flatmate.

"Sherlock…if your families were old friends…how long had you known her?"

"Until she was murdered…I'd known her my whole life up to that point."

"Oh…are…are you _sure_ it's all right for you to work on this case?" John asked, finally coming to Sherlock's side and resting a hand on his shoulder.

"Absolutely," Sherlock said, shrugging him off and continuing forward. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Well, you're…kind of close to it," John said, hurrying to catch up with him. Approaching the entrance of the main building, they could already see the police lines that had been set up.

"Don't you know me at all? I'm perfectly capable of separating my personal emotions from the case at hand."

"Sherlock, wait!" John said, seizing the taller man's shoulder when he'd finally caught up with him and forcing him to look at him. He held his gaze for several minutes before asking, "What was in that text?"

Again, the silence stretched between them, becoming all the more unbearable for John as he watched the uncertainty grow in Sherlock's eyes. He was _never_ uncertain…_never_ indecisive.

"If you don't want to tell me, that's fine, but please…don't lie to me."

Sensing the lifeline, Sherlock immediately grabbed hold of it.

"I'm not sure. It's…connected to Rosette, but I can't think why they'd bring it up all these years later."

"And why would someone send you a text concerning Rosette on the very same day your niece is kidnapped?" John prompted as they once again continued their trek to the police line, feeling that his normally brilliant friend was a bit off his game at the moment.

"My thoughts exactly. Ah, Lestrade," he said, noticing the detective inspector when they finally reached the perimeter. "What are you doing here?"

"Crowd control," Lestrade said, sounding more than a little sullen as he allowed them through. "Mycroft's security detail is handling the interrogations…though one would wonder why they'd be permitted, since they've already botched their jobs once this evening."

"Jurisdiction, jurisdiction," Sherlock said in a singsong voice, his putdown decidedly lackluster in comparison with some of his more brilliant moments.

"Head to the escalator. Mycroft's up on the second floor waiting for you."

"Thank you," John said before following after Sherlock's quickly retreating back. They passed several guards on the way to the escalator, but no one else.

"Where's everyone else?" John asked as the pair hopped onto the moving stairway.

"Most likely being held in the reception area. They're not interested in them. They want the people who actually saw her disappear."

Just as Lestrade had said, Mycroft was waiting for them at the top, pacing anxiously.

"Your service detail's off if your wife can get all the way to Baker Street," the younger Holmes couldn't help jibing.

"I let her go. Hunter was protection enough."

"Really? Because the fact that I'm here at all says otherwise."

"Not now, Sherlock," he literally growled, running a hand through his hair. "I let her go to beg you for your help. Whether we like it or not, you _are_ the only one who can find her."

"Where are the witnesses being held?"

"In the manager's office. Follow me; it's a little ways off," Mycroft said, already beginning to stride away. The two flatmates quickly followed.

"Have they learned anything?" Sherlock continued to question.

"I don't know. I decided to wait until you arrived. I'm not much interested in what the rest of them learn. All I know is that when you bring me the ones who did this, I'm going to personally see that they're buried in cement."

The rest of the hike to the manager's office was made in silence. When they finally arrived, they found the door thoroughly surrounded by men in suits. Mycroft spoke a few words to one of them and they were quickly allowed through the line of guards.

"There was a man," Mycroft reported before opening the door. "That seems to be all they're getting from them."

Upon entering the manager's office, the trio was faced with a young woman who couldn't have been much older than Shay. Her blonde hair was cropped close around her head and her green eyes were wide with nerves.

"The vendor, I take it?" Sherlock asked, noting her attire.

"Yes, sir," she said, not quite meeting his eyes.

"So…what happened?" Sherlock asked, taking a seat in front of her.

"Sir, I've told you everything I know," she said, sounding like she might cry.

"I'm not with the police or the secret service. I'm…an independent. I need you to tell me what happened."

"She was…just like any other customer. Miss Holmes bought three ice creams and stepped out of the queue. I saw a man approach her, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He spoke to her for a few minutes and they left together, just sort of…disappeared."

"I don't suppose you got a name?"

"No, I…I couldn't hear."

"What did he look like?"

"Short brown hair, not very tall…a bit pale-looking, nice suit…but that doesn't help much…it could be any man," she said hopelessly, wringing her hands.

Brown hair? Nice suit? It couldn't be. She was right. It could be any man…and yet…somehow he got the sense it was not. There had to be something else…some detail…

"Was there anything else you noticed? Any odd scents or…anything about his voice, maybe?" Sherlock pressed.

"Well…now that you mention it…there was a rather strange scent. I remember smelling chlorine."

"All right. Thank you. Next," he called out dismissively. A suited man entered from the next room, leading a man with long black hair tied back into a neat little ponytail. The agent led the woman out and the new witness took a seat.

"What can I tell you that I haven't told the others?" he asked, his tone slightly condescending.

"More than you might think. Tell me what you saw."

"Miss Holmes and her abductor came down to collect her satchel. All I was thinking at the time was how supremely rude it was for them to be leaving before the performance had concluded. The way Miss Holmes was dressed certainly didn't help either-"

"How did she seem?" Sherlock asked, quickly cutting him off.

"Certainly not like she was being abducted. She looked…blank, I suppose would be the word. She just gave me her ticket, I retrieved the satchel, and she thanked me. The man with her apologized…said she wasn't feeling well and he was taking her home. Then he put an arm around her shoulders and led her out."

"He actually spoke to you? What did he sound like?"

"A little high-pitched, I thought, but that's about it."

"You didn't, perchance, smell chlorine, did you?"

The man's eyebrows knit together briefly, thinking about it. "Well, yes…now that you mention it, there was a rather strong scent of chlorine. Is it important?"

Before Sherlock could say anything, one of the guards entered the room.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes?" Both brothers answered. John rolled his eyes.

"One of the dancers has come forward, says she's seen something."

"Where is she now?" Mycroft asked.

"Just outside, sir."

"All right. Send her in."

The guard did as ordered, leaving to lead a slender woman into the office. She was small, much shorter than even John. She was no longer in costume, wearing a pair of dancer's pants, a rather large overcoat, and no shoes. She was, however, still in makeup. Sherlock guessed it was meant to be some sort of fire motif, with delicate flame patterns stenciled along the sides of her face, and waves of red, orange, and yellow eyeshadow undulating across her lids and brow in blending shades. The makeup had a rather interesting effect when taken together with her hair, which was a particularly violent shade of orange-red that, Sherlock noted, was not a dye job, but her real hair color. The entire ensemble was compounded by the odd little half smile on her face.

"You've got some information for us?" Mycroft asked her.

"Yes."

"Well, out with it."

"I have a message for Sherlock Holmes," she said, remaining collected in the face of Mycroft's irritation.

"How…did you know I was here?" the younger Holmes asked, his eyes narrowing as he sized the woman up.

"You're always there, aren't you," she said. "Always near at hand when disaster strikes."

"Where is Shayla?" he asked as he stood, already starting to see what was happening.

"No, no, no, Sherlock. That's too easy. I'll tell you what I came here to tell you, but only if you follow me."

"Not bloody likely," John said.

"Oh, you'll follow me; you, too, Dr. John Watson. I find that fire can be quite…persuasive," she said, rising up on her toes and proudly drawing open her coat to reveal the explosives strapped to her body, like a bird showing off its plumage.

"What are you? Another stolen voice?" Sherlock asked, though he sincerely doubted it, given her attitude.

"No, Sherlock Holmes. Make no mistake. I _am_ your enemy. Tell your brother to call off his dogs, or we all go up."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock prompted. "Something tells me she's serious."

For a moment, Mycroft looked torn, but he finally moved toward the door, going out to tell the guards to stand down and let them pass. Once the ballerina was satisfied, she slowly began to move backward out of the office. Sherlock followed, knowing he didn't need to say anything. John was right behind him. Slowly, they moved through the circle of guards.

"No one follows," the ballerina warned, continuing to move backward, even after they were long out of sight of the circle of stunned agents.

The woman was clearly a dancer, moving backward with feather light steps, never once stumbling, even as she led them through a veritable labyrinth of corridors.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked.

"My name is Robin. That's all you'll ever need to know."

"Where are you leading us?" John pressed.

"In good time, Doctor."

"Whom are you working for?" Sherlock picked up the slack.

"You'll see, or…maybe you won't. That's up to you," she said. The halls around them were starting to darken. They were entering the area of the complex reserved for the dancers. "Do you know what we were performing tonight, Mr. Holmes?" she asked.

"Yes. A revival of Stravinsky's _Rite of Spring_."

"Good. I take it you know the piece well?"

"You take correctly. How is this relevant?"

"Just small talk, I suppose," she said, finally coming to a stop outside a room with several large windows looking in on it: a rehearsal room. The walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Without even turning to look, Robin opened the door and slipped inside. Once Sherlock and John had followed her, she ordered, "Close the door."

John did as she asked, making note of the fact that the door locked itself automatically.

"We've done what you've asked. Now what's your message?" Sherlock asked, glancing around without seeming to and noting that the room was empty save for a sound system and the faint outlines of another door in one of the mirrors.

"Did she scream, Sherlock?" Robin asked him. "Did she scream when you killed her father?"

John looked utterly confused, but Sherlock remained composed, not showing the shock he felt. "How could you _possibly_ know about that?"

"Answer the question."

"Yes," he whispered. "She _did_ scream."

"But you can still sleep at night for that murder, can't you? It's _her_ death that still haunts your dreams."

"Stop it," he ordered quietly. It was difficult to see her expression in the dim light, but he thought he could see her smiling, the makeup making her face look all the more twisted.

"How long did she live?"

"You-"

"Answer me," she said, her voice rising in pitch as she shook her coat, reminding him of their peril. "How _long_ did she _live_…with a bullet in her stomach?"

"Twenty minutes," he answered, focusing his attention on Robin's hair, trying desperately not to remember.

"And did she suffer?"

"She must have," he said, feeling his throat beginning to tighten as the memories started to seep through. "She must have been in…_agony_."

"Did she cry?"

"No," he answered, briefly managing to snap out of the trance. "She did not. She was brave…even to the last."

Throughout the exchange, John had kept his attention mostly on Sherlock, and he could now see he was starting to tremble. What was this horrible thing in his past that held such power over him?

"That's because she believed in you. She believed you would rescue her…and you failed. Will you also…_rescue_ Shayla Holmes?"

"Leave him alone!" John shouted, whipping out his gun and aiming at the diminutive dancer.

"Heheh. What will you do? _Shoot_ me, Doctor? Even if you _can_ hit me without detonating this little rig of mine, there's another nasty surprise waiting for you. Let us have our fun with your little friend."

"_I knew you'd find me. I __**knew**__ you'd come, Sherlock._"

Sherlock couldn't quite manage to keep the shock off his face at the sound of the voice.

"Rosette?" he whispered, his hands starting to shake uncontrollably.

Robin laughed outright at this as she slowly reached into a pocket in the coat, pulling out a phone. "You should see the look on your face. It's a recording. There _were_ cameras there that night. You know what happens now, don't you?"

Sherlock visibly flinched at the next sound to come through the phone: the gunshot…the shot that killed Rosette. He couldn't hold them back anymore. His mental barriers shattered and he was awash in memory: Rosette's shocked face…the hole…the blood…there was blood everywhere…_so much blood!_

"Stop it!" John hissed, re-aiming his weapon as his eyes shifted from his shell-shocked friend to his tormentor.

"Doctor-"

"Haven't missed a shot yet."

"Don't you want to speak to Shayla?"

John lowered the gun barely a fraction of an inch. "Where is she?"

Rather than answer, Robin pushed several buttons on the phone and it started to ring. After three rings, Shay's voice sounded over the loudspeaker.

"Uncle? Uncle Sherlock? Is that you? Are you there?"

"Shayla?" he murmured, slowly coming to. "Shayla, I'm here. Are you all right?"

"They haven't hurt you, have they?" John asked, covering for his flatmate's moment of weakness.

"I'm fine. I'm not hurt."

"Not yet," Robin murmured ominously.

"Shayla, listen to me. I need you to tell me where are you."

"I – I don't know. We left the square and he blindfolded me. I don't know."

"It's all right," Sherlock said, trying to calm her. "Is there anything else? Can you smell anything? Hear anything? What's the temperature like?"

"It…it's cold, and the sound echoes like…like in a large room."

"Any scents? There must be something," Sherlock pushed.

"I…I don't know…Uncle Sherlock, he…he gave me something…a needle…I can't…focus…"

"No. Fight it, Shayla; stay with me," he urged. "You must stay awake. You _need_ to give me something to go on."

"I…I smell…sandalwood. Uncle, I…I'm sorry-"

"Shay! Can you hear me?" John shouted, trying to keep her awake.

"Dr.…Watson?"

"We're going to find you! We'll save you! No matter where they take you, we'll find you! Sherlock can do it. You _know_ he can!"

"I know…you'll find me. I _know-_"

Shayla's words were cut off by the sound of her screaming.

"SHAY!" John shouted.

"I warned you, Shayla Holmes. I _wa-arned_ you," a familiar voice sounded over the phone before the connection went dead. Sherlock and John shared a look. They needed no words. They had their answer.

Moriarty.

"Where did he take her? What's he done to her?" Sherlock demanded of Robin.

"Oh, that's not for me to say. I'm to keep you here until they move her to a more secure location."

"Then we'll kill you," Sherlock said callously.

"Can you do it without detonating me? You haven't even got a weapon."

"I don't need a weapon."

"Good. Neither do I. Though, if we're going to fight to the death, we need a more appropriate arena. Don't you think?" she said, pointing her phone at the sound system. The speakers blared to life with a piece Sherlock knew well. The second movement of the _Rite of Spring_…'The Augurs of Spring'…a violent, thrumming piece of music…nine quick bursts on the strings and two powerful blasts from the brass. It was certainly a fitting piece for what Robin was proposing. Given her height, she didn't look like much of a fighter, but Sherlock knew better. A: she was in Moriarty's employ, and B: he had not forgotten for one moment that she was a dancer…a dancer good enough to perform in the Royal Ballet, no less. No doubt she had reserves of hidden power in that compact body. Her height, however, was rendered almost mute by her next move.

Robin whipped a device out of her coat, then easily shed the rig she was strapped to, tossing it behind her. Then she pointed the device at the floor in front of her and a jet of flame instantly spouted from it. Quickly, she drew a line of fire on the floor between them. The wooden planks caught and immediately began to burn.

"Whoa!" John shouted, jumping back as a blast of heat filled the room. The floor was all wood. It wouldn't take very long for it to go up completely, with the explosives…and they were locked inside.

Sherlock vaguely noted all this in the back of his mind, but most of his attention remained focused on Robin as she moved back and forth on the other side of the wall of fire, looking very much like a tiger on the prowl. If she hadn't looked demonic before, the flames dancing before her fanned her appearance to an even greater height. She wasn't going to come to him. He had to go to her.

"SHERLOCK!" John shouted in fear when the taller man suddenly leaped in the air, hurling himself over the line of flames and landing before Robin with only a few singes to show for it.

"You braved the fire, Mr. Holmes. I like you already," the fiery ballerina declared before springing at him.

Even though he was prepared for it, Robin still knocked him off his feet with her opening move. Delivering a crunching blow to his jaw, she rolled away before he could get a move in. Jumping quickly to his feet, he followed her movement, ready for her when she sprang up. Ducking, he delivered a punch to her stomach, but met with strong muscle, unlike the flab he dealt with in many of his opponents. She grunted slightly, but rolled with the blow, distributing her wait evenly along her side as the force took her to the ground. She recovered quickly, though, rolling to her back and drawing her legs to her chest. Then she somehow managed to spring up, delivering a double kick to his chest.

Sherlock choked as the air left his lungs. Gasping for breath, he smashed against one of the mirrors, hearing it shatter on impact. Still struggling to breathe, he reached behind him and carefully wrapped his hand around a broken shard of glass, waiting for her to come at him again.

As he expected, she charged, but at the very last moment, just as he was moving to strike, she seized his wrist, wrenching it painfully and stabbing his own weapon deep into his shoulder.

As he cried out in pain, he could hear John shouting, but his words didn't really register in his brain. He didn't even look at the wound in his shoulder. His eyes remained locked on the sadistic grin on his opponent's face.

"Clever girl," he said, sounding almost pleased by the defeat.

"You aren't going to get the jump on me in a dance studio," she said. Freed of the cumbersome burden of the explosives, her true prowess of movement was revealed.

However, rather than waste words on her boast, he bent over at the waist and barreled forward, delivering an unexpected head butt to her stomach. The force of the attack sent her flying and she landed hard, unable to distribute her weight across her body to soften the fall. For a moment, it seemed like she might be out, but as Sherlock moved to stand over her, she swung her legs out and kicked his own out from under him. Once again, he landed hard and she was on top of him in minutes. He'd only just caught sight of the fresh glass shard in her hand ready to stab him through the throat when it was shot out of her grip. Sherlock spared a brief glance across the wall of fire to see John with his gun trained on them, giving him a relieved smile. Hissing at the doctor like a wounded animal, Robin quickly rolled away from Sherlock, preparing for her next attack.

John had kept his weapon locked on Robin during the entire battle, just incase he was needed. He didn't think he could pull off another shot like that, though. His vision was starting to get bleary and the smoke inhalation was starting to get to him. Being a former smoker, perhaps Sherlock could handle it longer than he could, but he could already feel himself choking on the acrid air. He also couldn't help but notice that the room was going up faster by the minute…meaning that the growing blaze was getting closer to the explosives all the time.

Sherlock had actually managed to catch Robin's latest blow and the two of them were currently struggling for ground, getting closer to the growing inferno.

"You know what comes after 'The Augurs of Spring', don't you?" she teased. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he took note of her glee.

"'Ritual of Abduction'," he ground out.

"Very good. You know your music."

"It won't happen. I'll see it doesn't happen."

"It already _has_ happened," she said, suddenly releasing Sherlock's hands and completely removing her own force from their grapple.

Sherlock stumbled several feet before regaining his balance, quickly turning to see that Robin had landed on both feet, agile as a cat, having easily vaulted over his head.

"Game over, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock!" John coughed. "That coat could go any minute! We need to get out _now_!"

"Better listen to your partner," Robin said before leaping in the air and spinning, delivering a devastating kick to Sherlock's face. He heard, rather than felt, his nose break as he tumbled over backward, staggering from the blow. "I'll see you again, Sherlock Holmes."

There was blood in his eyes, but the only thing that really registered in his sight was Robin disappearing through the mirror door. He was up in moments, but the door wouldn't open…probably sealed from the other side. Sherlock pounded his fist against the door in a fit of anger.

"Sherlock! Sherlock…please…" he heard John coughing again, only much weaker this time. He looked over just in time to see him collapse.

"JOHN!" he shouted, desperately searching for a way back across…only the wall of fire had become a small pool of fire. He could never hope to cross it in only a leap. Glancing to one side, he saw that the practice bars to his right had already started to burn, but the ones to his left hadn't. Taking a moment to kick the explosives as far from the fire as they would go, he clumsily mounted the bar, barely managing to stay balanced on it. It was flimsy enough already and it could go up any second.

Just as he reached the edge of the fire pool, the bar finally gave, starting to burn. Still dazed and wounded from the fight with Robin, Sherlock went crashing to the floor, unable to stop his right foot from landing just inside the fire's grasp.

Feeling the heat sear his foot to the skin as he yanked himself free, he took the time to stamp out the fire before crawling over to his flatmate.

"John!" he called, shaking him, _needing_ a response…_any_ response.

Coughing, John managed to open his eyes, giving a faint smile when he saw Sherlock.

"Sh-Sherlock…" he rasped. "My…my gun…"

Sherlock's eyes darted from John's face, down to the gun he still loosely held, and up to the window in rapid succession. There were several spidery sections of splintered glass, but John hadn't managed to actually break the window by just smashing the gun against the glass. All in an instant, he saw John's thinking. He hadn't tried to shoot the window out directly for fear that the bullet might ricochet and harm either of them. The room was small enough for such a thing to be a concern.

Just as he was taking up the gun, favoring his left foot as he rose in order to smash the window out, he looked out and saw Hunter running toward the rehearsal room, gun drawn. He could see her shouting, but he couldn't hear what she was saying. Pounding a fist against the unyielding glass, he pointed to the gun he held, then to her.

She seemed to comprehend quick enough, raising her gun to fire. He still couldn't hear her, but he could make out her lips creating the words, 'Get down!'

Sherlock did just that, dropping to the floor and gathering John in his arms in order to shield him. The next moment, he heard the explosion of the firearm overhead and the sound of shattering glass as the stuff rained down on him. Being careful of it as he struggled to rise yet again, he helped John up, beginning to feel the effects of smoke inhalation himself.

"Take him!" he ordered, starting to pass John's barely conscious bulk through the window into Hunter's waiting arms. Much as they didn't get on, tonight was one night he couldn't deny the woman's strength.

"Sherlock…Sherlock…" John called out over and over again as Hunter pulled him through the broken window. "…where…don't…_Sherlock_!"

Once John was safely through, Sherlock attempted to hoist himself through the window, but his injured wrist and shoulder gave out on him and he began to tumble back into the lake of fire.

Hunter reached out to grab him just in time, supporting his weight and helping him to climb through. His body cried out in protest as the broken glass lacerated his skin in several places. He hissed in pain when his injured foot hit the floor, but he quickly recovered himself.

"Gotta get out…now…explosives," he tried to explain as he struggled to help John stand again.

"Can you even move?" Hunter asked, sizing the badly injured detective up as she moved to help him with John.

"Doesn't matter…have to…_now_!" he said, hoisting one of John's arms around his shoulders. Hunter did the same and they were off, half-dragging John as they ran down the hall, moving as fast as they could toward the elevator. Sherlock's battered body screamed in agony with each move, but he didn't allow himself the time to feel the pain. He didn't go down until they were inside the elevator and Hunter was furiously jamming her finger against the 'close' button.

"Aren't you supposed to take the stairs in emergencies?" Hunter jibed as the doors slid closed.

"Eight floors," Sherlock said, reaching over and pushing a button on the glowing panel. "That's all we need."

Hunter nodded, realizing, as Sherlock had, that the explosion could very well take out the elevator cables and kill them all anyway, and as they passed through the seventh floor, they heard the explosives detonate, ripping violently through the floors over their heads. The moment the doors opened for them, Hunter and Sherlock dragged John from the elevator, collapsing outside of it just in time for the cables to incinerate and drop the steel coffin from its supports.

Not really taking into account how close they'd all come to dying, Sherlock turned painfully onto his side to see John lying beside him, his eyes open and breathing heavily. The fresh air was already starting to help with the smoke inhalation.

"Are you all right?" he asked, not really thinking as he reached out his injured arm to touch his face.

"I'll live," John whispered, reaching up his own hand to touch Sherlock's, just happy Robin hadn't killed him.

Mindless of his own injuries, Sherlock pulled John into his arms, resting his forehead against his for a moment.

"Don't do that again," he reprimanded him.

"Me?" John rasped, incredulous. "Just look at yourself. You're a great bloody mess."

"Be that as it may, there's still work to be done," Sherlock said as he struggled to sit up, then to stand. "We can take the stairs now, Hunter."

"You really are mad, aren't you? What set of stairs are you going to get down in your condition?" the bodyguard asked.

"Doesn't matter. I need to get outside."

"Why?" Hunter asked. "If I let you out of my sight now, my boss'll kill me."

"You know where she is," John said, the pieces coming together in his head.

"I know where she _was_. I sincerely doubt she's there now."

"Sherlock, did…did you hear that _voice_?" John asked, unsteady as he slowly sat up.

"I did. You're not crazy," Sherlock reassured him. "It's him."

"Him?" Hunter questioned, her gaze darting back and forth between the two partners.

"Moriarty," Sherlock answered, beginning to head off in search of the stairs.

"Sherlock, wait!" John protested, finally struggling into a sitting position. "What if there're more of them out there?"

"Aren't there always?" Sherlock joked, his grin still somehow managing to be winning, despite his patchwork of wounds.

"Miss Carson, can you go with him? I don't trust him right now," John said, moving from struggling to sit to struggling to stand. He didn't trust him after that battle…and he _especially_ didn't trust him after the episode before it. He knew they were both in bad need of medical attention, but he couldn't just let Sherlock go off on his own.

"Oh, no, no, no, no. We aren't going to do that. Stay with _him_, Hunter. He might keel over again any minute."

"Well, clearly it's all of us or nothing," Hunter noted as John finally made it to his feet. "I'll get the boss to send for an ambulance." Just as she was saying this, though, her cell phone rang. When she answered it, the sound of Mycroft's voice echoed rather loudly through the connection.

"Yes, we're all fine, but you might want to have an extra ambulance sent around."

'What's he done now?' the elder Holmes' voice shouted over the phone. Sherlock and John tuned the rest of the conversation out as they came together, leaning on one another for support as the trio moved on to look for the stairs, which turned out to be fairly close to the elevator.

"What happened to your foot?" John asked, noting his charred shoe as they struggled to make their way down the first set of stairs. Thankfully, they weren't too far up now.

"Burned it…trying to get back across."

"Does it hurt?"

"Beyond belief," the detective said casually.

"Good. Can't be worse than second degree, then. If it was worse, you wouldn't be able to feel it anymore."

"Come on, John. I was only on fire for a second."

"Only a second, he says," Hunter said as she put away her phone. "Maybe I should…walk in front of you…incase one of you falls."

"Given the choice, Hunter, I think I'd rather fall than be caught by you."

"That so? So I should have just let you fall back there?"

"I said given the choice. That wasn't exactly a choosing moment."

"Love you, too, prick."

"How long have we got?" John asked.

"Not long. There're ambulances here already. Mr. Holmes called for them the moment the three of you disappeared. He's willing to let us search, but we might have to get past Lestrade. How likely is he to let the two of you go off on your own looking like you do?"

"It's not far, is it?" John asked Sherlock, not sure how far either of them could get.

"No. It's just down in the square, actually."

"Didn't she say they'd left the square, though?"

"She did, but she didn't know where they'd gone after she'd been blindfolded. I think he just led her in a bit of a circle. There's only one place in the area that would have a particularly strong scent of sandalwood."

"That being?"

"The street market. It's closed by now, but the stalls are all still there. It would also explain the echoing she heard. The area's covered, so it would produce a similar type of echo to being in a large room. It _is_ a wide area, just not particularly tall. Also, John, do remind me to kill Robin next time we meet."

"Why?"

"This was my _favorite_ coat, and now it's completely ruined."

The conversation had carried them all the way to the main level. As Hunter had predicted, Lestrade immediately stood in their way when the three of them came staggering toward him.

"What…what _happened_? We heard the explosion-"

"Had a bit of a disagreement with one of the witnesses," Sherlock said.

"You _would_ be at the center of an explosion, Sherlock," the detective inspector said with a roll of his eyes. When they actually attempted to get past the line, he really did stop them. "Where do you lot think you're going? The ambulance is the other way."

"We're just going for a stroll in the market. Be back shortly," Sherlock said, again attempting to get past Lestrade, who stopped him by placing a hand on his injured shoulder. Sherlock froze, but displayed no signs of pain.

"I don't know if you'd noticed this, but you're sort of covered in blood."

"Am I? I _hadn't_ noticed. Thank you so much for pointing it out."

"He thinks there might be something that can help us find Shay out there," Hunter explained. "Don't worry. If he collapses, I'll drag him back for you."

"No doubt you've wanted to do _that_ for some time now," Sherlock groaned as Lestrade reluctantly let them pass.

The street market wasn't far from the entrance, but even so, Sherlock and John were both staggering even worse by the time they reached it. Moving among the empty stalls, Sherlock followed his nose. By the time he picked up the scent of sandalwood, he could also detect the coppery tang of blood in the air. This proved to be coming from the small pool of blood they found next to Shay's combat boots inside one of the more out of the way stalls.

"That _bastard_!" Hunter hissed when she saw the blood.

Sherlock said nothing at first. It wasn't like he hadn't been expecting something like this…after the scream. However, before he could properly inspect it, he went down, unable to stand anymore. John went down with him, still struggling to breathe.

When Hunter moved in to try and help them, Sherlock waved her off, pulling out his phone to shed some light on the scene.

"She was stabbed in the left shoulder."

"How?" Hunter asked begrudgingly, knowing he would explain whether she wanted him to or not.

"Notice the bloody handprint a little ways below the puddle. It's a left handprint. She was drugged, though, so she would have been unconscious very shortly after we heard her on the phone. I imagine the kidnappers left the handprint deliberately to reveal what was done."

_That would certainly be Moriarty's style._

Moving the phone in a wider arc to make sure he hadn't missed anything, the light caught on more blood a few feet away. Pulling himself away from John, Sherlock crawled over to the anomaly.

"What is it?" John asked as he crawled after him, not wanting him out of his sight.

When Sherlock saw the word written on the cobblestone in Shay's blood, he couldn't help but laugh quietly.

"That's good. We needed to stop by there anyway," he said before collapsing back against John.

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" John called out weakly, barely able to remain upright himself as his friend collapsed into his arms.

The word 'hospital' had been painted onto the dark stone.

XxX

(A/N) Still enjoying? Any thoughts? A few things for this chapter: For anyone not musically minded, I imagine you've heard Stravinksy's _Rite of Spring_ before. Think Fantasia. Also, I have no idea if there's any such think as a handheld flamethrower, but if there is, I feel fairly confident that Moriarty could get a hold of it. And as for that fight, I don't pretend to be a doctor in any way, shape, or form, so I've done my best to describe all injuries, but I still don't know how well I've done. If anyone happens to know better, feel free to enlighten me.

Be sure to tune in next week.


	3. The Dragon Seal

(A/N) The Science Of Seduction and SarahTee, thank you very much for reviewing. It keeps me alive. And thank you all for the additional alerts/favorites. Let's see what's in store for our duo.

**A Rose on the Grave**

_Chapter 3: The Dragon Seal_

Sherlock spent roughly the next thirty minutes unconscious. When he came to, the first thing he saw was John, unconscious beside him with an oxygen mask over his face. He tried to say something, finding a mask over his own face. When he tried to reach up to remove it, he found that his arms were strapped to the gurney he was lying on. Taking further stock, he found he was completely strapped down.

"Feeling better, sunshine?" a voice somewhere above him asked. Looking up, he saw Mycroft standing at the foot of the gurney. He narrowed his eyes, growling being the only effective sound he could make with the mask over his face.

"I had them restrain you because I figured you'd only harm yourself if you came to before we got to the hospital. That and you won't listen to anything I have to say _unless_ I do this. So as long as you're just lying there, pay attention. John is fine. He's just sedated because they couldn't calm him down after you passed out and it wasn't helping his already damaged lungs any."

His brother knew him a little too well, Sherlock found himself thinking. The revelation completely arrested his attention, and instead of blatantly ignoring Mycroft, he turned to look at his flatmate again.

_You were…worried about me?_

"He should recover fine. He'll probably just need to take some antibiotics for any internal damage, and the cuts on his skin have already been seen to. You, though, are another matter altogether. Broken nose, stab wound, fractured collarbone, sprained wrist, lacerations on the arms and legs, superficial second-degree burns, not to mention the smoke inhalation. Tell me, Sherlock, how do you plan on finding Shay if you're going to be in the hospital for a year?"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes. It would be that Mycroft would only want to talk to him when he couldn't talk back. What he didn't seem to know yet was that Shay wouldn't be particularly hard to find. Moriarty would dangle her in front of them like a scrap of meat. He would make her suffer to make them suffer, but more specifically himself…because Jim Moriarty had somehow found out about Rosette. He had discovered the secret ache that had been carved into him all those years ago. Shay had been taken because of him.

"Hunter said you believe Moriarty's behind this. She didn't seem to know how you knew, but I imagine we'll get to that once they've stitched you up a little better. Don't know if you know this, but you were a right sight when Hunter dragged you back to the paramedics: blood all down your front, all the way down your right side, blood everywhere, really. I'm almost amazed you're awake now. I'd almost like to see how Robin Kirk looks right now."

Sherlock's eyes widened in interest at this.

"Yes. We know who she is. I had a dossier pulled together the moment you disappeared. An interesting bird, your little ballerina assassin. You can look at the files when you're feeling up to it."

Again, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, expressing his displeasure in the only way available to him. All he wanted was to sink his teeth into that dossier, but Mycroft held it just out of his reach.

"I know, baby brother, you'd much rather have those files than pain killers, and don't worry, I didn't let them give you any. I know how you feel about those. Only…Sherlock…I need you to do something for me real fast. Look at your right foot."

Sherlock raised his head as best he could, looking down. The charred remnants of the shoe and the sock had been stripped away. Some sort of ointment had been applied to it, but he could still see the skin underneath: red with patches of white and covered in blisters. Yes, he'd been burned. That was plain enough. What was Mycroft getting at?

"Now look at these," Mycroft said, moving to hold his phone up to Sherlock's face. "The police took these photos before allowing the paramedics to administer first aid."

The first was an image of Sherlock lying on his back, unconscious. As Mycroft had said, his front was covered in blood from his broken nose. The blood along his side was from the stab wound. The next picture showed just that: the jagged rip deep into his shoulder. Mycroft had said the clavicle was fractured. Injury followed injury in a macabre slideshow: his swollen wrist, his broken nose, the lacerations from crawling over the broken glass, his burned foot. There was no doubt he'd been seriously injured. The images and the pain in his body confirmed it. So what was his brother trying to say?

"Moriarty, Kirk, whoever it is that's really behind this…they mean business. This was just the tip of the iceberg, and you could have died a hundred different times over tonight. They'll hit you hard. I want you to find Shay, but I also want you to be careful. I don't think you're going to like what you find down this road."

Mycroft didn't know the half of it. The trouble was that neither did Sherlock Holmes or John Watson.

XxX

"_Hello, Miss Holmes."_

"_Oh, hello. Have we met before?"_

"_We haven't, but that'll soon change. You might say I'm something of a fan of your uncle's work."_

"_Ah, he is brilliant, isn't it? I'm sorry, sir, but the intermission will be over soon. I need to get back to my seat."_

"_No…I don't think you want to be doing that."_

_That's when she sees the tiny pistol in his hand. Then she feels the cold metal against her stomach._

"_Don't scream. Don't do anything except walk with me. If you do, I'll shoot your pretty little body guard."_

_So she follows, making no sound or indication that anything is amiss. The scent of chlorine hangs heavily in her nose._

"_Get your satchel. You know what happens if you give the game away."_

_Once again, she plays, practically feeling the weapon aiming over her shoulder at the man fetching her bag. Then he wraps an arm around her shoulders and leads her away, the pistol jammed into her ribs with the free hand, completely invisible to any passerby. She feels she would almost rather be shot. Why is she letting this happen? Sherlock Holmes is her uncle! He would a figure a way out of this. What can she do?_

"_Who are you?" she asks when no one else is around._

"_What I said, Shayla Holmes…a fan. I just love to watch your uncle __**dance**__…and __**you**__, my dear, are part of his next great performance. Don't worry; I won't hurt you," he tells her as he ties the blindfold around her eyes and spins her around to disorient her. "Well…not until it becomes necessary to do so, anyway, and who could say when that'll be. So come on, Miss Holmes, and we'll go wait for your uncle to meet my little bird."_

_Then…when she hears her uncle's voice over the phone, she feels the needle pierce her skin. It's quick. Already her body feels heavy, but she can still hear…movement. Someone else is near. As Dr. Watson tries to comfort her, she feels the pain. _

_The knife is like a bolt of lightning through her shoulder…pain…blinding pain._

"_I warned you, Shayla Holmes. I __**wa-arned**__ you."_

_Then the drug kicks in and she knows no more._

"_Wake_ up, _little_ Shayla. _You're_ missing _all _the _fun_."

The words were trapped somewhere between waking and dreaming. She had no idea how long she struggled with them, trying to find her way to them in the dark. Where had she heard the voice before?

When her eyes finally started to focus through the haze, they found themselves locked on a man in a suit.

"Ah, she lives."

"How…long?" Shay asked slowly.

"About twenty-four hours now. Good job resisting as long as you did. That was a very potent cocktail."

"I'm…pretty drug resistant," she said, coming more and more out of the daze. As she became more aware, she realized she was sitting in a chair, her wrists bound behind her and her ankles bound to the chair legs. The pain in her left shoulder had diminished to a dull ache as opposed to the lightning it had been before.

"So you are. I've done my research, Shayla Holmes. I knew it would take more than the average dose to put you under, but he had to hear your voice at least once…to know that I _do_ have you."

Shay groaned in slight frustration. Already, she had let this man use her against her uncle. "So this is about Uncle Sherlock, not my parents."

"Just so. Clever girl, but I suppose you'd have to be, being a Holmes and all."

"Why me?" she asked, looking her captor directly in the eyes. "If you wanted to get to him, there are more sensitive pressure points."

"Oh, I know that. You're just…a different _kind_ of pressure point, my dear. After all, your uncle doesn't see _you_ when he looks at you."

"You think I don't know that?" she asked quietly, finally looking away from the man.

"You noticed that, did you? There's…maybe _one_ other person who can make Sherlock Holmes suffer as greatly as you can. He just doesn't quite know it yet."

"You're Moriarty, aren't you," she said, making a statement of fact rather than asking a question.

"Ooh, you _are_ clever, aren't you. This is going to be fun."

"It's not that hard to figure out."

"My, but you're cute, Shayla Holmes…trying so hard to be just like him. Where do you suppose that'll end you? Probably in a swimming pool somewhere faced with another mad genius exactly like me….or…who knows? Maybe it will _be_ me."

"You won't beat him," she said with certainty, the implications of his statement quite clear to her. "He'll find you."

"Heheh, you're quite the loyal little pup. Yet another addition to Sherlock's collection of faithful pets. Would you like to meet mine, Shayla? Would you like to meet my little bird?"

At his words, a figure stepped out of the shadows behind Moriarty. She was dressed in black dancers' pants and a camisole and orange red hair fell to her shoulders in loose curls. Her face was painted with a fantastic array of makeup, but the effect was somewhat marred by the black eye she was sporting.

"Say hello to Robin, Shayla. She had a bit of a run in with your uncle last night and came out the worse for it. I believe she's quite eager to take that out on you."

As he finished speaking, Robin pulled out a lighter, flicking it to life as she advanced on Shay. The youngest Holmes struggled briefly, but her bonds and her bandaged shoulder didn't allow for much movement.

She didn't scream. She hissed in pain and clenched her hands into fists until her nails drew blood from her palms, but she didn't give them the satisfaction of a scream. She did everything in her power to keep from crying out.

When Robin had finished her work, Moriarty came to kneel before Shay, who was breathing heavily, her body limp in the chair.

"How do you feel?"

"I…I am _not_…afraid of you," Shay groaned in defiance, barely managing to remain conscious through the pain.

"Oh, Shayla," he began, sounding slightly condescending as he lifted her chin to look her in the eyes. "You really _should_ be."

XxX

John was discharged from the hospital after only one night with a bottle of antibiotics and a warning to take it easy. Sherlock's injuries, on the other hand, required a bit more work. The right clavicle needed to be set and the arm placed in a sling, along with ice applied to the wrist. The lacerations from the glass were easily bandaged, but the tear in his shoulder needed two sutures. The nose wasn't too badly damaged; it would heal well enough on its own. The foot was the real trouble, with the need to remove the damaged tissue and to properly dress the wound. Sherlock had, of course, refused painkillers throughout all the treatments, but Mycroft had insisted he be sedated once they were finished so his little brother might get a proper rest. Once John had been discharged the next day, he went straight to Sherlock's room to wait for him to wake from the drugged sleep. When he did wake, the two of them shared a brief relieved smile, but John cut right to the chase after that.

"Who was Rosette?"

Groaning, Sherlock closed his eyes in exasperation. "You _know_ who she was, John."

"No, I don't…not really. Obviously, she's somehow important to this case. Moriarty's found out about her, hasn't he?"

"It wouldn't be all that hard…a consulting criminal. He's probably got his fingers in everything this side of the Atlantic, and even then, well…given his obsession with me, he would have found out sooner or later."

"If _he_ already knows all about this…don't you think you might want to let me in on it? The more I know, the better."

"Perhaps. She was…well…she was…_you_…I suppose…is the best way I know to describe her," Sherlock said, his gaze sliding away from his flatmate as he spoke.

"_Me_?" John asked, now completely confused. "I don't…what do you mean?"

"She…put up with me…and she stuck with me…even when it wasn't in her best interest…"

"He means, Dr. Watson, that she was his friend," Kathleen said as she entered the recovery room, followed closely by Hunter. "Whether or not he likes the word, Rosette was his friend…his _best_ friend."

"Only," Sherlock corrected, subtly owning up to the charge of having had a friend.

"Dr. Watson, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to speak to you in private," Kathleen continued.

"Don't you _dare_ leave me alone with her, John," Sherlock said, his gaze shifting suspiciously to the suited woman. "She'll kill me and my body will disappear into a university collection somewhere. No one will _ever_ find it."

"Hunter promises to play nice," Kathleen assured them. "Besides, I thought you'd _want_ to see her. She's got the dossier you wanted to see. Call it a peace offering from your brother."

Sherlock's interest was instantly piqued by this and Kathleen used the opportunity to slip John out of the room. They didn't go far, just a few feet from the room.

"What's with those two?" John asked, sounding slightly nervous as he glanced back over his shoulder. "Exes?"

Kathleen half laughed at this. "Hardly. Neither Hunter nor Sherlock has ever displayed sexual interest in anyone. I've never really understood why they don't get on. The only cause I can think of is Shay."

"Shay? Why?"

"Hunter's been with us for ten years now. She was hired to protect and teach Shay after a Korean terrorist group attempted to kidnap her to get to Mycroft and myself. There are few people who understand Shay better than Hunter does…and I think she dislikes Sherlock for the uneasy relationship he has with Shay."

"And why is _their_ relationship uneasy?" John pressed.

"It's all to do with Rosette. It started with her. I sometimes think Sherlock resents Hunter her closeness with Shay…because it's something he can never have himself."

"That…that makes no _sense_. Mrs. Holmes, just who was this Rosette? I've been hearing her name everywhere for the past twenty-four hours," John said, feeling the beginnings of a tension headache. He was so damn tired of being in the dark.

"It _will_ make sense. Only, Dr. Watson, I must ask you not to press Sherlock about her until he's ready."

"Until he's ready? It's been twenty-one years!" the doctor hissed in exasperation. "This is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about. How is he not ready?"

"He took Rosette's death so hard. He never spoke of it, but he missed her. He still misses her, whether or not he wants to admit it. He won't talk about her; sometimes it seems like he's trying to forget she ever existed. He hasn't spoken of her _once_ since she died."

"That's not true. He talked to _me_ about her," John said.

"I know. I heard you just now, if you'll remember. Did he say her name?" she asked, suddenly seeming tense.

"No…not today…but he has done…twice before."

"What did he say?"

"The first time, he shouted it out in a nightmare…woke me up. When I asked, he said she was an old case…someone who'd died."

"More or less true. And the second?"

"Last night, the dancer woman Sherlock fought…she had some sort of recording…of what happened."

"Oh, God," Kathleen murmured. "What…what happened?"

"He said her name, and he just sort of…froze. He doesn't do that. He _never_ freezes," John said, recounting the events with a trace of horror as he started to realize just how badly Sherlock had been affected.

"I know."

"You…seem like you know him pretty well."

"As well as his brother does. Rosette and I were there with them the day he was born, after all," she said, her expression going distant.

"So…Rosette was…your-"

"My little sister," Kathleen responded without hesitation, her gaze snapping back to John. "She would have been Shay's aunt. I don't think anyone knew Sherlock better than she did."

John wasn't entirely sure why…but he found himself feeling a twinge of jealousy at the statement, and before he could stop himself, the words were out of his mouth.

"Because he wouldn't _let_ anyone else in."

"Yes," she said, her focused gaze shifting into something warm the doctor couldn't quite make sense of. "No one since her…except for you."

John didn't need to express surprise at this. He _knew_ it was true. The only thing was there was something…different about the way Kathleen Holmes said it.

"I've been…_praying_ you'll be the one he opens up to, Dr. Watson. Sometimes I feel like Mycroft and I…treat him like he's still a kid."

"What do you mean?"

"We treat him like he hasn't aged any since the night it happened…like he's still a fourteen-year-old boy…covered in his best mate's blood and barely comprehending he'll never see her again. God, it was awful to find him like that," she said, her attention drifting off yet again. John was starting to see that Kathleen was no less a sibling to his flatmate than Mycroft was.

"So what makes _me_ so special?" he finally asked, drawing Kathleen's wayward thoughts back to the conversation at hand. Again, she gave him that oddly warm expression.

"It's like he said himself. You're a lot like she was. You don't take any of his bollocks, and you don't…shall we say 'change course' when the wind changes…at least, you haven't yet, and I don't think you're likely to."

"And is anyone ever going to tell me…just what happened that night?" John asked, coming at last to the answer he really wanted.

"If it becomes necessary to do so and Sherlock won't do it himself, then yes, but not now. It seems like something _he_ should tell you, except that…"

"What?" he prompted gently.

"Last night…it seemed that this whole thing was just about Shay…but it looks like it's getting bigger all the time."

John simply nodded, glancing worriedly back at Sherlock's room. He couldn't agree more.

XxX

The hospital decided to keep Sherlock under observation for yet another twenty-four hours at Mycroft's insistence, which the consulting detective wasn't particularly happy about, but he at least had the Robin files to pour through during his imprisonment. When John came to visit again on the third day, bearing Sherlock's laptop, as he'd requested, he probably knew more about Robin Kirk than just about anybody on the planet, Moriarty being the only possible exception. With his mad deduction skills, he could make connections the agents who compiled the dossier couldn't. He could see the things that weren't written.

"So who is this woman?" John asked him as he handed over the laptop.

"Just the sort of maniac that's drawn to our good friend, the consulting criminal. She may have had the dedication to become a Royal Ballet ballerina, but her first and only true love is fire. It took some work, but my brother's agents uncovered the arson charges Moriarty had probably managed to bury. It all stopped right around the time she was being considered for the Royal Ballet. In fact, those agents might not have found the charges except for some notes from Kirk's various school councilors. None of them said so, of course, but they feared her. They _all_ feared her," Sherlock said, an odd look coming into his eyes as he looked up from typing.

John was about to ask more when Lestrade suddenly burst into the room, followed by Mycroft, Kathleen, and Hunter.

"Lestrade, I'll have to ask you to leave at once. My brother is still recuperating," Mycroft warned.

"Sherlock, what's this bollocks Mycroft's been telling me about Moriarty being involved?"

"Just the truth."

"No! That's impossible! There's no way he could have survived that explosion."

"Perhaps not…but you never did find a body, did you? Not even a trace of one. Ergo, he's still alive."

"What's your evidence?"

"We heard his voice, John and I."

"That's it? That's really all you've got to go on? You were obviously under stress that night. Are you sure you weren't just hearing things?"

"Do I seem like I just 'hear things', Lestrade? Besides, one doesn't tend to forget a voice like Jim Moriarty's."

"Excuse me?" a new voice interrupted. They all looked to the door and found a young nurse sticking her head into the room. "May I speak to Dr. John Watson a moment?"

"Sure," the doctor said. Before he left the room, though, he shot both Sherlock and Lestrade a look. "Please don't kill each other."

When John stepped out into the hallway, he found the nurse standing with her hands behind her back, looking nervous.

"Something wrong?"

"I don't think so, sir. I'm just a little…confused."

"How do you mean?"

"Well…a woman came by and asked me to bring you this," she said, revealing what it was she had hidden behind her back. "She said it was important."

For a moment, John felt his heart stop. The nurse was holding the black satchel with the red Asian script…_Shay's_ satchel!

"Who delivered this?" he demanded of the nurse as he seized the bag.

"I…I don't know. A woman…" the nurse answered, looking fearful at John's sudden outburst.

"Did she have red hair?"

"N-no. Brown. She was…tall…had a bit of a tan. She didn't leave a name. She just asked that it be delivered to you and left."

"Damn it. Stay right there," John ordered before heading back into Sherlock's room. He didn't really need to say anything to interrupt the three-way shouting match going between Mycroft, Lestrade, and Sherlock. He just held up the bag.

"Oh, my God," Kathleen whispered.

"How did it get here?" Mycroft asked.

"Nurse brought it. She said some woman dropped it off. You might want to get some people over here," John said to Lestrade.

"Absolutely," Lestrade said, pulling out his phone as he headed out the door to speak to the nurse.

"Mycroft, gloves please," Sherlock said quietly. None of them had taken their eyes from the satchel, but Mycroft managed to in order to get a pair of rubber gloves from one of the cabinets. Without being asked, John brought Sherlock the satchel.

Once he'd put on the gloves, Sherlock began to probe through the bag. A small makeup kit came out first, followed by a fan and a notebook. Next came a phone in a purple case.

"No wonder the GPS didn't work. He must have kept this moving all around town," Kathleen said, watching Sherlock's every move intently.

A few more odds and ends came from the satchel, but the last thing to come out was a DVD case with the same Asian symbol as was on the bag.

"What does it mean?" John asked.

"It's the Japanese Kanji for 'dragon'," Sherlock said.

"You read Japanese?"

"Not as such," Sherlock explained as he opened the case. "This I know because Shayla told me. She has a very strong affinity with dragons."

The DVD inside the case had only one word printed on it.

Shayla.

Sherlock looked up, silently asking his siblings' permission to play the disc on his laptop. They both nodded. Just as he was inserting the disc into the drive, Lestrade reentered the room. He was about to say something when he noticed what was going on.

"What is it?"

"There was a disc in the satchel," John explained.

Slowly, the program came to life. Sherlock entered a few commands and a video began to play. Shay was sitting in a chair at a table, staring blankly at the camera. Her left shoulder had been bandaged, but both arms were now adorned with neat little rows of burn marks.

"How do you like my little bird's handiwork, Sherlock?" she asked, her face remaining blank. "Robin really is quite talented with a lighter, but you already know that, don't you." At this last statement, Shay's eyes briefly looked fearful, but the look soon vanished. "I've waited a long time for this girl…waited for the anguish inside of her to ripen. Not her own, of course, but the anguish _you_ have vested in her.

"She _knows_, Sherlock Holmes. Did you know that? She's not a kid anymore. She's a smart young lady…and you can't hide it from her…the reason why you can't look her in the face." Again, Shay's blank look briefly morphed into something pained and she gave her head a tiny shake, but as before, she quickly returned to the blank stare. "Who do you see right now? The girl…or the ghost?"

The words were coming from Shay's mouth, but Sherlock could just picture Moriarty saying them…just _hear_ his voice…mocking.

"Really, I don't even know why I'm asking. We both know the answer. Are you surprised I know? You shouldn't be. I suppose you could say I…inherited the Yew Branch organization. It was a favorite client of my…predecessor. Although…I _was_ there that night…twenty-one years ago…when you brought them down…when your little rose died."

When those words left Shay's lips, all eyes in the room turned to Sherlock. He hadn't moved. His only noticeable reaction was a slight widening of the eyes.

"They aren't gone, you know? You didn't destroy them. They've only been biding their time…and now who have they come to to put your head on a platter? Me…me and Miss Holmes here, of course." At this implication, Shay closed her eyes, shaking her head again. This break lasted a little longer than any of the others, but she was soon back to the blank slate.

"She's been very brave throughout all this. None of those other idiots were any fun, sobbing and begging. Only she and the good doctor have been remotely interesting. She says she's not afraid of me. What do you think, Sherlock? Should she be afraid of me?"

"Oh, Shay," Kathleen cried quietly. Mycroft took one of her hands in his. "She'll get herself killed."

"She didn't cry…not once. Even when the flames were against her skin, she didn't beg or scream or anything. She's too proud for any of that. She really is a rare specimen. Just like a Holmes. I think I can make her scream, though. Want to watch?"

Shay's eyes widened as she spoke these words; she twitched for a moment, as if wanting to look around her, but not daring to. That was when three figures burst out of the darkness of the room behind her. Two men seized Shay and forced her down on the table. The third figure they all recognized as Robin Kirk.

"Shay!" Hunter shouted, forgetting for a moment that this had already happened and couldn't be stopped.

Gazing into the camera lens as if she knew they were watching, Robin pulled out a pocketknife, waving it before them with a sadistic grin. Then, pushing Shay's hair to one side, she used the knife to cut open her shirt from the back. Throughout all this, Shay struggled violently, kicking the chair away.

Holding the blade right next to Shay's face, Robin draped herself over her back, holding her down as she wrapped her other arm around Shay's stomach.

"Don't struggle. It will only be worse if you struggle."

"Let go of me," the fifteen-year-old growled, still struggling.

Sighing, Robin pressed a kiss to Shay's ear before drawing back.

"Have it your way. You like dragons so much…_be _a dragon," she said, forcing Shay's head against the table and laying the blade against her skin.

They couldn't see what Robin was doing, but it took a long time. At first, Shay only hissed and gave small cries, but as Robin dug deeper, carved away more skin, the poor girl couldn't help but scream. Her fingers dug into the table she was pinned to as she screamed, releasing her agony in the only way available to her…and as Robin worked, the group in the hospital looked on, none of them able to look away. Kathleen began to cry as Shay's screams escalated.

Finally, when Robin had carved her last stroke and Shay had spent her energy screaming, Robin laid the bloody knife to the side and took out a lighter, taking it to Shay's back. When she'd finished with this, the camera started to move, coming around behind Shay to observe Robin's work.

There was blood everywhere, but Robin had cauterized the wounds with her lighter, so that burned and scarred into Shay's back was the same symbol as the one on her bag.

"Shay," Mycroft whispered, the shock in his voice tangible.

The two men holding Shay down backed away, but she didn't move. She remained draped over the table, breathing heavily and trembling. Robin gently turned the girl's head to face the camera. She closed her eyes in shame, her face streaked with tears.

"How do you feel _now_, Shayla Holmes?" Robin asked.

Shay shook her head weakly, refusing to play. "I…I'm not…scared. I'm…fine…Uncle Sherlock. Don't…don't play…"

As Shay struggled with her words, Robin slapped her hard across the face. "Oops. Looks like Shayla can't talk anymore. I suppose I'll have to finish things up here. Do you remember Champollion, Sherlock? Jim seems to think you will. Until you do, Shayla's mine…and she has such lovely skin."

With that, the screen went dark and the program shut down.

"That sick…twisted…" Lestrade muttered, not quite able to get the words out.

"Sherlock…are you all right?" John asked him, noticing the way his hands gripped the laptop.

"Jim," he said quietly. "Is that enough for you to go on, Lestrade?"

For a moment, the detective inspector looked torn, but finally nodded. "I'll take it. I'll need that disc, though…so some of the boys can start analyzing it. They should be here soon. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, if you wouldn't mind, I'll need you to accompany me."

"Keep an eye on him, Hunter," Kathleen said.

Sherlock mutely ejected the disc and handed it over. Lestrade gathered the case, the satchel, and all its contents before heading out with Kathleen.

"Don't try anything," Mycroft warned his brother before following them.

"You have to let me go," Sherlock said to Hunter the moment they'd gone.

"In this state? You're mad. You'd be dead before you could blink," she said crossly, her nerves still rattled.

"We all know that if Moriarty wanted me dead, I would be. This isn't about killing me."

"Weren't you listening? Yew Branch wants you dead."

"Except they went to Moriarty for help, and he _doesn't_ want me dead. This is about getting information."

"Do you even _know_ where he wants you to go?" John asked.

"I've got an idea."

"Even if Hunter _does_ let you go, _I_ certainly won't. You'd probably collapse before you got wherever it is you're going anyway."

"You're going to stop me then, John?"

"Absolutely."

"You seem to have forgotten you're outnumbered," Sherlock said, his gaze drifting back toward Hunter. When John turned to look at her, though, she just stared back at Sherlock, completely unmoving.

"You really think you can find something that'll help?" she asked.

"I guarantee it. If we want to see her alive again, we've got to play his game…for now."

"Sherlock, you can't just-" John's protest was interrupted by a sharp jab to the back of his neck. He was unconscious before he even hit the ground.

XxX

(A/N) And another one bites the dust. Hopefully, I've kept you interested enough to hang around for another week.


	4. Sticks and Stones

(A/N) The Science Of Seduction and acids-and-bases, thank you very much for continuing to review. And thanks to those of you who alerted the story. Here's yet another installment of…

**A Rose on the Grave**

_Chapter 4: Sticks and Stones_

"I'm sorry about this, John," Sherlock said to his unconscious flatmate as Hunter helped him heave him onto the hospital bed. "I'll make it up to you when I get back. I'll get the milk next week."

"You'd better not waste this opportunity, Holmes," Hunter warned him, going for the black trench coat she'd come in. "If you get into trouble out there, you're on your own. Unlike your brother and the doctor, I don't _care_ what happens to you," she said as she helped him get the coat on over his injured shoulder. "I just want you to get Shay back."

"That's the plan…only…don't let _him_ go anywhere until I get back," Sherlock said quietly, looking back at John.

"Why? Is there something more you're not telling us?"

"I'm not sure," he said, more to himself than to Hunter. "But if it's me Yew Branch wants…they'll go after him first."

"You'd better get going. He won't be out for long," Hunter said as she took a seat in one of the chairs surrounding the bed. "Just to be clear, you _do_ know where you're going?"

"Oh, yes. I'm not going to tell you, though. You'll have to tell them where I've gone the moment they ask you."

Hunter just shrugged. "Your funeral."

"No, Hunter Carson. _Your_ funeral if anything should happen to him."

XxX

When John Watson groggily came to about fifteen minutes later, the first words out of his mouth were, "He's not here, is he."

"No," Mycroft's voice answered him, "but I know where he's gone and I've sent some people there already to back him up if he should need it."

"If you already knew where he was going, why did Hunter feel the need to knock me out?" he asked, his eyes slowly starting to come into focus to find the recovery room now occupied by Hunter, Mycroft, and Kathleen.

"Because he wasn't the one trying to stop him at the present moment," Hunter answered, her closed eyes and her crossed arms clearly indicating her annoyance.

"Where's he gone, then?"

"The British Museum, I imagine," Mycroft said.

"How do you figure that?"

"Champollion. Most likely a reference to Jean-Francois Champollion: the French scholar who cracked the code of the Rosetta Stone nearly two centuries ago. The Rosetta Stone is, of course, housed in the British Museum."

"Why would he go there?"

"Even I don't know that, but it does seem the most likely option at this point," Mycroft said.

John drew his hands up to his face, shaking his head as he groaned in frustration. "Why did you let him go? Why did _any_ of you…in his condition…why?"

"Do you really think we could have stopped him?" Kathleen asked.

John's hands slipped down, his eyes opening wide as he slowly started to realize. "You _wanted_ him to go, didn't you? If you'd really wanted to stop him, you could have."

"If my brother is capable of movement, I'm just as content to let him continue the game. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't press so hard, but I _want my daughter back_. You understand?" Mycroft asked, his tone going much harder than usual. John glanced toward Kathleen, who at least had the decency to look torn over the decision, but she nodded. The doctor couldn't say he was entirely _un_sympathetic toward their plight. Things had changed since this morning, after all, and they were all desperate to get Shay back…but John wasn't willing to pay Sherlock as a price to do that.

"This is ridiculous. He shouldn't be moving at all. I'm going to put a stop to this right now," he said as he got up from the bed and began to move toward the door. Hunter quickly moved to block his way, though.

"What would you do? Drag him back?" she asked.

"If I have to."

"He's under surveillance. He'll be fine," Mycroft insisted.

"You really think he can't ditch your surveillance? Him? Sherlock Holmes? And here I thought you were supposed to be clever," John said, his tone much harsher than normal as his worry for his flatmate mounted with each passing moment.

"Dr. Watson, please," Kathleen attempted to placate him. "They'll let us know if they lose track of him. In the meantime…Lestrade won't be bothering us. There are some things we feel you need to know…in light of what's happening."

Seriously considering repaying Hunter for her earlier treatment for several more minutes, John eventually let his shoulders slump in defeat, turning to face the two political powerhouses. Mycroft was the one to finally offer up the answer he wanted.

"Yes, John Watson…we're going to tell you about Sherlock, Yew Branch, and the night Rosette Christopher was murdered."

XxX

With the help of Hunter's coat and the money she'd leant him, Sherlock was easily able to sneak out of the hospital and get a cab back to Baker Street. He imagined his walking around with no shoes and a bandaged foot would be difficult to explain, so he needed the stopover in order to retrieve some of his own clothing. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson was out when he arrived or he would have had a time of it explaining himself. He sent the cabbie away and called for another one while he was changing in an effort to start throwing off his brother's watchdogs, whom he was perfectly aware of.

The first order of business was getting out of the hospital gown and into a decent set of clothing, all with one arm. No easy feat. The next was getting a shoe on over the bandages on his foot, something else that was decidedly not easy. Once he was properly clothed and had got his arm back in its sling, he grabbed Hunter's coat and draped it over the injured shoulder while trying to get his left arm into the sleeve: a bit more of a struggle without Hunter's help. He also retrieved his gun, deciding it was going to remain at his side from now on. To leave it behind before had been nothing less than stupid, something he prided himself on _not_ being. The last touch was to retrieve John's old cane, deciding not to punish his aching body anymore than was absolutely necessary.

By the time he was ready, the new cab had arrived and he went out to meet it, asking to go to the British Museum. Once he got there, though, he didn't go straight in. He went for a stroll around the area, ducking here and there as best he could until two men in suits finally walked past his hiding place. Feeling rather pleased with himself, he stayed hidden a while longer, until his pursuers were long gone. It had, of course, already occurred to him that Mycroft might have figured out Moriarty's clue as well and sent some people ahead to the museum, but he was at least pleased to say he'd been able to slip one surveillance detail.

In all this time, Sherlock had not given himself a moment to think about how much the fact that Moriarty somehow knew about the museum bothered him, but as he entered the building, he found the thought getting to him. He had never told _anyone_ about it.

It had been for Rosette's thirteenth birthday. Other girls wanted their ears pierced. Rosette had wanted to see the Rosetta Stone. She'd had an avid interest in all things Egyptian ever since her mother had bought her a picture book about Cleopatra when she was six. Mycroft and Kathleen had been away at university at the time and there had been plans for a trip into the city, but an emergency had come up that required all four of their parents.

Sherlock and Rosette had been into the city before, but they'd never been by themselves, so they'd decided then was as good a time as any. They'd snuck out and caught the underground to Tottenham Court Road Station and walked to the museum from there. It hadn't been much of a hike from the entrance to their destination.

"Isn't it beautiful, Sherlock?" she'd said, getting down on her knees and making a proper scene in front of the display case and earning the stares of several other museum-goers.

"Beautiful here having the meaning of 'enormous slab of broken stone'?" he'd asked, adopting his usual stoic tone, even though he was pleased she was happy.

"That's exactly what it means. Nothing is more beautiful than an old piece of rock with pictures on it," she'd shot back, only half teasing. "You know, sometimes I think Champollion must have been a lot like you."

"Like me?"

"Yes. He spent months trying to figure out the hieroglyphics, hardly resting or eating in the weeks leading up to the breakthrough, and when he finally figured it out, he collapsed for a week. You're like that. You work at something until you have the answer, no matter what it takes. They'll remember you for it someday."

"Do you think so?" he'd asked, getting on his knees beside her.

"I know it. Maybe you'll be the one to solve Minoan Linear A?"

"Why would I do that? What's so interesting about a dead language?"

"Can you imagine everything we might learn about the Minoan culture? We know so little right now, it's-"

"Boring."

"All right," she'd laughed. "Perhaps _this_ will grab you. Linear A is a code no one's been able to solve for centuries. How would it feel to make proper idiots out of all those stuffy old professors?"

He'd not wanted to admit it, but he'd known that she'd known she'd caught his interest. Something like that would be a proper challenge.

"This was worth it," she'd said, turning to him suddenly and throwing her arms around him. "We'll get in so much trouble, but it was so worth it."

"Stop that. Don't," he'd complained, trying to push her off.

"Thank you for coming with me."

She'd been right, of course. They'd spent the rest of the day exploring the Egyptian gallery and had been subjected to very thorough punishments upon returning home. Apparently, the entire city had been looking for them…it _had_ been worth it, though.

All of this was on Sherlock's mind as he passed through the Great Court. The stark white central area had still been a library when he'd come with Rosette, but the stone was still in place. He could just picture the two of them on their knees before it as they had been all those years ago, her hugging him and him trying to push her away. He'd always been so annoyed whenever she did that. Might he have done things differently…if he'd known those hugs were limited? God, but he'd give just about anything to have her hug him one last time. Maybe he'd even hug her back…

"Done some growing up, have we…Sherlock Holmes?" an unfamiliar voice sounded somewhere to his left, instantly snapping him out of his thoughts.

An old man had managed to squeeze in beside him amongst the crowd of viewers surrounding the stone. His left hand aimed a camcorder at the ancient stone, but Sherlock could clearly see his right hand resting on the compact revolver in his pocket.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

"Maybe a little," he responded casually. "Who are you?"

"I guess you'd say I'm a messenger. You can call me Gabriel."

"Bit high-handed, your bosses."

"Not really. I imagine you'll have realized this by now, but we don't want any ransom for Shayla Holmes…at least, nothing monetary. What we want is that disk you stole from us."

"What if I told you I destroyed that devil spawn a long time ago?" he asked tentatively, not particularly surprised by the demand.

"If that were the case, I don't think I'd have to tell you your niece's life would be forfeit."

XxX

"My mother really loved my father," Kathleen started to explain once John made it perfectly plain he wasn't going to sit for this explanation. "She was the Christopher….Rosemarie. My father was the one to change his name when they married. He was born Jonathan Davis."

"Why do I need to know this?" John interrupted, uncertain how it was connected.

"Because I want you to understand about my mum. No one approved of their marriage at all. Davis had no known family and was working a low-income job when they met. It seemed destined for disaster. Only…he seemed to turn it around for her. He went back to university, and with the Christopher connections, he was able to start rising through the ranks of the Secret Intelligence Service. No one ever suspected…not _once_…"

"What?" John prompted.

"That Davis was a fake. He was a top agent in a secret organization known as Yew Branch. He'd been ordered to get close to the Christopher family by any means necessary. If those means meant marrying my mother and having children with her, I'm sure that meant little to him," she said, her eyes going hard as she spoke.

"What exactly is Yew Branch?"

"Would you believe me if I told you they were a group bent on world domination?"

"Probably not…but this doesn't seem like the time for joking, so…world domination, then?"

"Yes. Whether they can actually pull it off, I couldn't say, but they meant business. They had members everywhere. Davis had some sort of coup in the works. He'd procured some very important foreign defense information and copied it to a floppy."

"A floppy?" John asked incredulously.

"This _was_ back in 1990, Dr. Watson. Computers weren't yet quite as reliable. He erased the information from the system and stole the disk. He might have gotten clean away with it…if not for Sherlock and Rosette."

"Sherlock and Rosette? How…how old were they? What happened?"

"They were fourteen and fifteen. The house was meant to be empty that night. I was away at university and Mum was out working. Rosette had gone out on…well…her first date that night. It was a boy from her year. They went out for dinner, but it…didn't go well, so she came home early. She called Sherlock and he snuck over to see her. Heh…he did love to sneak past security," she said quietly, trailing off.

"They saw something," John said, his voice just as quiet.

"They caught him when some of his men came to secure the disk," Mycroft continued. "Davis tried to talk his way out of it, but even then, Sherlock was too smart for that…and not smart enough to know when he should stay out of something. No one's really sure why he took Rosette and not Sherlock. My only guess is that he didn't want to arouse our father's anger. Rosemarie wouldn't have been much of a threat when she learned of her husband's betrayal, but our parents were another matter. They would have destroyed him. They did try, but the point is Davis made his biggest mistake in kidnapping Rosette and leaving Sherlock for dead."

"He managed to get the word to the Holmes and they were able to get him treated for his injuries," Kathleen picked up the narrative once again. "Once he could move again, he was on their trail in a minute. He didn't trust anyone but himself to find Rosette. He followed the tracks…like he always does…and he actually managed to get the disk back from Davis…but everything went bad after that. He allowed himself to be taken in order to get to Rosette…and when he finally found her, Davis threatened to kill her if Sherlock didn't give him the disk."

"So…what did he do?" John asked.

"Rather than give in to his demands…or allow Rosette to die…Sherlock killed Jonathan Davis…shot him right between the eyes," Mycroft answered when Kathleen was unable to.

"He…saved her? How did she die, then?"

"Just when things seemed like they might turn out for the better… a sniper's bullet hit Rosette in the stomach. Then the sniper sealed them in. Sherlock searched for a way out…but Rosette knew she was dying. She asked him to stay with her…and he did. He held her…until she died. It was at least another half hour before anyone found them."

"God," John murmured. He didn't need to imagine what it was like to see a friend gunned down in front of him…but to be so young…and to watch her die…knowing there was nothing that could be done to stop it…

"He blames himself for it," Kathleen added. "For not being fast enough…for not thinking there might have been a sniper…but mostly I think he blames himself for surviving when she didn't. The only reason _anyone _could think of for his life being spared was that he knew where this disk was."

"And what happened to it?"

"We don't know," Mycroft said. "Sherlock said he destroyed it. We even had him take a polygraph."

"But you didn't believe him," John supplied.

"Would you?" Kathleen asked with a pained smile.

"England's arm of Yew Branch fell that night. Sherlock was able to turn many of them over to the police. No one really thought they were beaten, of course. We tried to keep a closer eye on the foreign branches after that, but they're a tough group to catch wind of," Mycroft explained. "No doubt Sherlock's been waiting for this, but I don't think it's happened quite the way he expected."

"What happened to your mum?" John asked Kathleen.

"She just…lost it…completely," the woman said slowly. "She really did love Davis…and to have him betray her…and to lose both him and her youngest on the same night…she was never really the same again. She retired from politics and died in an institution only a year later."

"From what?"

"Who really knows? She just didn't want to live anymore…and that left me the last Christopher. I stayed with the Holmes' whenever I was home from school and…when it felt right…Mycroft and I followed in our parents' footsteps…then married. Shay was born not long after."

"What does all this have to do with Shay?" John asked. It all seemed to keep coming back to her.

"Well…before she was born, Sherlock had been retreating more and more into himself. He'd had drug problems even before he entered university and it only got worse after that. Shay…seemed to have a healing effect on him, though," Mycroft said, what could almost pass for a fond smile gracing his face as he remembered. "He adored her…in his own way. He cleaned up for her…and when she was little, he loved spending time with her."

"So…what happened?"

"She grew up," Kathleen answered as she pulled out her phone, flipping through its databanks until she found what she was looking for. "Who would you say this is a picture of, doctor?" she asked, showing him the picture on her phone. It appeared to be a picture of Shay…a school picture, perhaps. She was pictured from the waist up, wearing a sleeveless purple blouse. Her auburn hair had been pulled back and braided.

"Shay," he answered automatically.

Kathleen shook her head. "No. This is a picture of Rosette…taken a few months before she was killed."

"My God," John whispered, slowly taking the phone in his hands and going over every detail of the image. If there _was_ a difference between the two girls, he couldn't see it.

"A cruel trick of genetics," Mycroft said quietly as Kathleen took her phone back. "My daughter looks nothing like me. Shayla and her late aunt are virtually identical."

"That's why Sherlock can hardly look at her," John said. "Whenever he does…"

"He sees Rosette. He sees his failure…and the friend he lost," Kathleen said. "She is pain to him."

"It isn't fair," Hunter growled quietly, making herself known in the conversation for the first time. "That girl…_adores_ him…and that bloody sod can't even see her for who she is."

"That's enough, Hunter," Kathleen said firmly, her eyes filled with tears she refused to shed. "It isn't his fault. If it's anyone's fault, it's Davis'."

"Not his _fault_? Forgive me, Mrs. Holmes, but he's a grown man. He should bloody well learn to deal with it."

"Hey!" John snapped at the bodyguard. "Lay off him!"

Raising a quizzical eyebrow at the vehemence with which he defended his flatmate, Hunter finally backed down.

"Something you need to understand about my brother, John, is that he's very strong…but it's _because_ he's so strong that he's fragile. It's been happening faster ever since the incident with Moriarty, but if someone doesn't make Sherlock realize that soon, he will break."

John really didn't know what to say to any of this. It was probably the most straightforward Mycroft Holmes had ever been with him. Thankfully, he was spared having to say anything when Mycroft's phone rang.

"Yes?" the elder Holmes said into the device. Several moments later, he wrapped up with, "Thank you. What a shock."

"Well?" Kathleen asked.

"That was Randolph. I don't suppose anyone's surprised they've lost him?"

"Sherlock," John said softly, heading straight for the door. No one tried to stop him this time.

XxX

"Her life would be forfeit?" Sherlock asked. "Could you have picked a more worn cliché?"

"Probably not," Gabriel answered with on odd leer, "but the trouble with clichés is they tend to have a ring of truth to them, hence the repetition. Survival of the fittest, eh?"

"Yet another one."

"It's not untrue. The point being, though, that I don't _need_ to tell you her life would be worthless under those circumstances because we both know you _haven't_ destroyed that disk. You've kept it all these years, studied its contents extensively, hoping to bring us down…perhaps even something so human as avenging the death of your friend. Trust me; we know you, Sherlock Holmes."

"Why would you want that disk, anyway? No doubt the information on it has long since become obsolete."

"You think so? Look again. There's something you've missed if you think it's obsolete."

"Impossible," Sherlock fired back softly, trying not to draw too much attention. "I know the contents of that disk backward and forward. If there were anything there to be seen, I would have seen it by now."

"Still a child. Dead for twenty-one years and Jonathan Christopher's _still_ outsmarting you."

"_Davis_!" Sherlock hissed, still not quite looking at his opponent. "Jonathan _Davis. _That's the name he's _buried_ under."

"Ooh, touched a nerve, have I? Does it irk you? Being told there's something you're not seeing?"

Normally, it wouldn't. Normally, he would be intrigued, but this was a mystery that had eluded him for years…the only one that had ever really mattered…and the only one he _couldn't_ crack.

"Where are my brother's drones?" he queried, changing the subject suddenly. "I should think they would have interfered by now."

"They've been taken care of. I didn't want anyone interrupting while I was trying to talk to you."

So there were at least five injured men lying about somewhere, either dead or in need of medical attention.

"You've made your demands, and if I know your consultant at all, you're also meant to point me in the right direction. So what is it? What's the clue?"

"Look at the dirt, Mr. Holmes. Examine it very closely. They tell me you can do it."

"And how am I supposed to-"

Under normal circumstances, he would have been faster, moved out of the way in time, but his injuries had slowed his reaction time, so his burned foot was right there when Gabriel smashed his own thick boot down on it.

"You have to admit, you walked right into that one," the messenger said snidely.

"Yes…yes, I did," he groaned as he slowly sank to the floor, pain reverberating up and down his leg.

"You've got what you need now. I suggest you mull over our offer a few days…probably stay off that leg."

Several people had backed away when the assault had begun and Sherlock thought he heard someone calling for security. It was not, however, museum security that responded, much to Sherlock's horror.

"Back away from him," John ordered as he ran toward them, his gun drawn and aimed at Gabriel's head. Hunter was close behind. Within moments, Sherlock felt the muzzle of a gun pressed against his head.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

"No…I don't think I will," Gabriel said quietly. While this exchange was going on, Sherlock had been slowly reaching for his own gun, but then he felt the muzzle lift away and was instead met with the butt of the revolver smashing against his head. Sherlock went down, dazed and disoriented from the blow.

"One move and he dies," Gabriel warned, still aiming for Sherlock as he slowly backed away.

"You won't kill him," John said.

"Maybe not…but you won't take that risk, will you."

"John…" Sherlock ground out, the world still spinning violently around him. "He won't…just shoot him."

Before anyone could do anything, Gabriel changed his target, aiming at John Watson and firing off a round.

"John!" Sherlock shouted.

Several people screamed at the sound of the gun going off. There wasn't even a moment to react. John couldn't move out of the way, but he did manage to turn slightly to the side so that the bullet only grazed his shoulder, rather than striking it outright.

Hunter pursued Gabriel as he ran, firing after him and missing, not willing to risk firing too much for fear of hitting a bystander. John made his way straight to Sherlock, kneeling down beside him and helping him sit up.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me? Does your head hurt?"

"What do _you_ think?" he asked, closing his eyes and shaking his head briefly to clear it.

"Look at me, Sherlock," the doctor ordered, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look up. Taken aback by the intensity, Sherlock opened his eyes. John was relieved to note that both his pupils were the same size: a good sign there probably wasn't extensive brain damage. "What about dizziness? Do you feel dizzy at all?"

"No, not anymore. That was over pretty quick."

"Where are we?"

"British Museum."

"What's my name?"

"John bloody Watson. Why all the questions?"

"Checking for confusion or memory loss. That was a pretty bad blow."

"He got away," Hunter reported angrily as she stomped back toward them.

"Typical."

"Well, I see that blow to the head hasn't changed _your_ sunny disposition."

"Leave it, Hunter," John ordered sourly. "He might have mild traumatic brain injury."

"A concussion, idiot," Sherlock said to the blank face the bodyguard gave them. "Just tell my brother his agents are out of commission."

"I'd gathered as much when none of them answered my calls on the way over here, believe it or not."

"Why did you let him come here?" Sherlock demanded of Hunter. "I _told_ you not to let him leave."

"I _did_ come with him, incase you hadn't noticed."

"That makes me feel _so_ much better. Look at him! He's been shot!"

"It's just a graze, Sherlock. It'll be okay," John insisted. "You seem fine for the moment. They'll want to check you over again at the hospital, though."

"It's the foot we probably ought to worry about. He smashed it pretty good when…he…" Sherlock's voice died in his throat when he glanced down at his foot and happened to see a smear of dirt where Gabriel had stomped on it.

"Sherlock?"

"Quick, John! We need to bag that shoe!"

XxX

Ultimately, the encounter proved to be not as bad as it could have been. Mycroft's agents were all recovered and Sherlock's foot was only badly bruised, nothing broken; the burns had only been aggravated, and the hospital staff diagnosed him as not having a concussion, which he essentially proved to them by deducing just where the planted dirt sample on his shoe had come from…apparently somewhere in Greenwich. Sherlock hadn't spoken since he figured this out, though. He abstained from the usual bitching and moaning about being stuck in the hospital and being looked over by any doctor not John. He just sat in his bed, staring blankly at nothing.

Later that night, after he'd refused to talk to Mycroft or Lestrade about what had happened, John slipped quietly into the recovery room. For a long while, he just stood quietly beside him.

"Why won't you talk to Lestrade?"

Nothing.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Silence.

"Do you want to find Shay or don't you? If we don't cooperate with them, they can't help."

"Can't _help_? What are _they_ going to find?" Sherlock finally muttered, still not looking at him. "Do you really think this puzzle's meant for anyone but me?"

"Probably not," John responded as if his flatmate _hadn't_ been mute for the last five hours, "but you're hurt. You don't have to do this on your own."

"Are you all right?"

"What?"

"Are you _all right_?" Sherlock repeated, nodding vaguely at his left shoulder. "I saw the bandage earlier."

"This? It's fine. I hardly feel it. There wasn't even much blood. They just needed to clean it. I think they only wanted to bandage it because of everything else that's happened recently."

"Well…what happens next time…if you _can't_ dodge?"

"Sherlock-"

"They won't kill me. They'll _never_ kill me so long as I possess something of value to them. Anyone close to me is fair game, though. You're closer to me than anyone. Just how long do you expect to survive?"

Though he couldn't deny the tiny stirring of warmth he felt at being acknowledged as closest to Sherlock Holmes, now was not the time to talk about it. "I'll survive as long as I have to. I've no plans to die anytime soon."

"No one ever does," Sherlock said, his voice sharp with bitterness as he turned to look out the window.

"So…what's so important about Greenwich?" John asked after another long silence.

"It's where the dirt came from."

"I know. I remember…but what's significant about it? You've been brooding for a while now."

"I haven't-"

"You _have_," John cut him off. "About five hours now. What's _wrong_?"

"I couldn't…forget the composition of that dirt if I _wanted_ to. I haven't…been there in twenty-one years. _She's_ buried there…in Greenwich," he finally answered.

John didn't really need to ask if that was where they were bound once Sherlock had recovered. This was all connected somehow. Where else would a clue from Greenwich be leading them?

"You won't have to go alone. I'll be with you," he reassured him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"They told you about it…didn't they," Sherlock said, reaching up a hand to touch John's.

"They did," he said; there was no sense in denying it, "but I'd like to hear about it from you sometime."

Sherlock shook his head. He didn't know if he could _ever_ speak of it. Even after all this time, the wound still felt fresh…as raw as the moment it had been inflicted. Sometimes he thought everything he'd ever done…had merely been an effort to forget that pain, and the past week's events were starting to prove to him just how abysmally he'd failed. What would happen…if the same thing that had happened to Rosette…happened to John? He didn't think he'd survive it. Nothing would be able to pull him back this time.

Suddenly, nearly choking on the desperate fear that drove his actions, Sherlock turned and wrapped his uninjured arm around John, holding tight and resting his head against him.

"She-Sherlock?" John stuttered, unnerved by the sudden closeness. "What-"

"Don't go," Sherlock begged, not looking up at his friend. "Stay…let me hold you."

"Are you…sure you're not concussed?" John asked, feeling a sudden urge to run his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls.

"They said not," Sherlock said, his words slightly muffled against John's body. "I'm not going to ask again, John. Just…just let me." He had never held Rosette…never hugged her back. How horribly he regretted that now. He didn't want to regret anything anymore…not with John.

Uncertain whether it was potential brain damage talking…or emotional trauma finally surfacing after years of repression, John finally gave in to the request, crawling into the small bed with his flatmate and curling up with him. He loosely wrapped his own arms around Sherlock's slender frame, while Sherlock felt like he might crush him with his own one-armed grip. They didn't speak, but John thought he could hear Sherlock whispering something. It took him a while, but he eventually made the words out.

"_You can't die. You can't die. You can't die. You __**can't die**__._"

"I won't," John said firmly.

XxX

(A/N) And so it begins. Again, I hope you've enjoyed it and will stick around for the next time.


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